It Never Leaves
by teawithlucifer
Summary: This fic is full of angst and possible triggers! Read at your own peril! Set after Sherlock's return so some vague references to the RBF. John is depressed, has been all his life, and it never really leaves.


**This is just the first chapter, not sure where I'm going with it yet, but I do know that it'll be full of angst. Thanks for reading! Reviews and constructive criticism are welcome always **

The depression never really leaves. John came to this realization as he stood on the stoop of 221B, staring at the six-pack he held in one hand and the pills he held in the other. When John had come back from Afghanistan, he had sunk into depression. He had been considering ending it all, had, in fact, written the letter to whoever found him, the day Mike Stamford came across him in the park. After that point he had convinced himself that those dark days were behind him. Hell, when you lived with Sherlock Holmes you didn't have time to be depressed. For two blissful years his life had been happy and fulfilled, at least to the point that he could push that dark, nagging voice to the back of his mind and chase after his crazy consulting detective. Those days came crashing to an end (or so John thought) when he watched his best friend jump to his death. That dark voice had come back, ten times worse than it had been before Sherlock, and John was swallowed by his depression.

The days went by in a colorless blur, most of the time John barely pulled himself out of bed, much less to eat or bathe. Lestrade and Molly made an attempt to drop in on him after it happened, but after a while they stopped visiting him. On the first anniversary of the fall, John had taken out his service piece and held it to his temple; the only thing that stopped him was the sound of sweet Mrs. Hudson bustling up the stairs with two cups of tea. There were several more occasions that found him sitting on Sherlock's bed, rolling the pistol over in his hands, and every time it was the thought of inconveniencing Mrs. Hudson that caused him to replace the gun in his nightstand and continue on with his monotonous routine.

On the second anniversary of his death, it was Lestrade who ensured that he kept breathing (not alive, he died when Sherlock jumped.) The DI had bundled a soaking wet John off the roof of St. Bart's and home (no not home, not since he left). After that point in time, Lestrade had made it his responsibility to pull John from his solitude at least twice a week, much to John's disgruntlement. He wanted nothing more than to be allowed to wallow in his misery; the voice that constantly pulled him into darkness seemed to take joy in reminding him how useless he was. Every time Lestrade showed up it reminded John that he was so useless he couldn't even kill himself properly. It was months later when he found the only thing that silenced the voice, at least for a little while.

Drawing a razor blade across his skin sent him into a sort of catharsis and soon became a ritual of sorts; he started doing it every night after he had woken up, screaming, from the nightmares. It was the third anniversary when the cutting just didn't seem to keep the darkness out. This time, John had settled down in his chair and drawn the blade from his wrist to his elbow while coolly watching the crimson seep out. He had then settled back, welcoming the strange sleepiness that seemed to steal over him. He had ben so convinced that he had succeeded that time, especially when he saw the form of his flat mate hovering in front of him. He hadn't had time to contemplate the frantic worry on Sherlock's face before he fell into unconsciousness. Of course, when he woke up in the hospital, he had found out the truth, and, after many arguments, he and Sherlock had fallen into a semi-normal routine, until this morning.

Sherlock had been in one of his normal moods again, and by normal, John meant he was sulking on the couch, complaining of his boredom. John, who hadn't slept well the previous night, had lost his patience with the man. " Bloody Hell Sherlock! You're not a child, so quit acting like one!"

John's words had an adverse effect on the consulting detective, sending him further into his pout that was now bordering on a full-on hissy fit. "But Jawn! I'm bored! Where's your gun? Where are my cigarettes? No, don't answer that, I'll figure it out on my own, whatever menial hiding place your simple mind has come up with should be easy enough to find."

John rolled his shoulders, mentally trying to shrug off the sting he felt as his best friend/flat mate called him stupid once more. Try as he might, though, he couldn't prevent the comment from awakening the small voice in the back of his consciousness, which immediately began to agree with the detective. _Of course you've got a simple mind! That's all you are to him, all you are to anyone really; just simple, stupid, damaged John Watson, only good for buying the milk and you can barely manage that half the time. _"Fine! Do whatever you want, you bloody wanker! Just don't come to me complaining after you've smoked all your cigarettes and nobody will sell you more! I'm not going to buy you any more; if you wanna kill your lungs against your doctor's orders you go right ahead!"

Sherlock, looking thoroughly annoyed, sat up and spat, "Well then, John, it seems you are utterly_ useless _to me. Perhaps you should just leave!"

That had been enough to send the voice in the back of his head from a malicious whisper to a poisonous shout and John had left the flat in a daze, grabbing only his bottle of pills and a coat. He had wandered about, not paying attention to where he was going, but eventually his feet had let him back to 221B. He sighed, looking at the pills in his hand. He really was useless; how much could a broken down, simple, pathetic, ex army doctor help a genius like Sherlock Holmes? The man was clearly better off without him, the last three years had proven that. John had been the one who wasted away to nothing, practically mad, while Sherlock had waltzed in as if he had been on holiday, not unraveling Moriarty's twisted web. John sighed again and then dumped the bottle of pills into his mouth, washing them down with one of the beers in his hand. He walked up into the flat, noting the dizziness that was already setting in. John walked straight past his flat mate, who hadn't moved at all, and into is room, laying down on his bed with a sad yet content sigh. He wouldn't be a burden to Sherlock much longer.


End file.
